Hardboiled
by Estelle Tiniwiel
Summary: Lord Vetinari receives news of a long expected event. Unfortunately, the news is less than positive.


**Disclaimer**'Tain't mine, it's Mr Pratchett's.

**Summary:** Lord Vetinari receives news of a long expected event. Unfortunately, the news is less than positive.

_**Author's Note:**__ Well, this is just a little Christmas prezzy for everyone, although it's not a particularly happy story so if you don't want that then I suggest you leave it until the festive season is over. It's quite a long story but definitely a whole, so I didn't want to divide it into chapters; hope that's alright with everyone. Also, instead of just using double spaces to indicate scene changes I've used -x- , because my eyes sometimes skip double spaces by mistake and I wanted to make it clearer for everybody. Vetinari is one of my favourite characters, so I've tried to explore what I think possible reactions to certain situations would be; I realise that this leaves me prone to mischaracterisation, but I hope that I've managed to avoid this wherever possible. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and if you like it or want to put forward criticism then reviews are gladly received. Merry Christmas!_

_Estelle Tiniwiel xxx_

_P.S.: Chapter Two of _A Complicated Case_ is now also up._

**Hardboiled.**

Drumknott hesitated outside the door to the Oblong Office. The message that had been expected for some time, but which was nevertheless not a welcome one, had finally arrived. Drumknott had tried to keep in a business-like and matter of fact frame of mind, but really his head was a mess of fears and apprehensions. His Lordship was renowned for his composure and self-control, and the only times Drumknott had ever seen it slip even in the slightest was when the man was under a lot of stress and something hugely important was happening; at times like that, his master's voice could come across louder and sharper than usual – and no less dangerous for it. Drumknott wondered, then, how he would react to something personal.

Drumknott's hand wavered over the smooth, polished wood of the door, before finally making contact and sending a reluctant rat-a-tat-tat echoing through the corridors of the Palace.

"Come in," came the call.

Drumknott pushed open the door and stepped into the room, shutting the door neatly and quietly behind him, his face calm. The paper in his hand was quivering. Vetinari sat behind the large desk of the Oblong Office, his hands folded in front of him, his face expressionless as the clerk made his way across the floor to stand before him.

"Ah, Drumknott." He took in and noted the young man's appearance. "You're looking rather _grave_ today, Drumknott, are you alright?"

_He knows_, thought Drumknott. _Or rather, he's guessed – it's not as though this news is totally unexpected._

"My Lord, I'm afraid to have to tell you that the Lady Roberta Meserole passed away in Pseudopolis at 3 o'clock this morning."

Drumknott watched his master carefully. To Drumknott's admiration or horror – he wasn't sure which – the man's face remained totally expressionless, but the man's fingers flexed slightly in their hold on each other, and his back straightened almost imperceptibly. When Vetinari spoke, his voice came low and soft.

"Thank you, Drumknott. Give the message to me and then go, please."

Drumknott stepped forward and slipped the paper onto the desk. Vetinari reached for it, but his hand stopped just above the message, hovering without wavering as its owner frowned slightly and, without looking at the clerk, asked him: "Drumknott, you said that Lady Roberta died at 3 o'clock this morning. It is now a quarter to seven. Would you care to tell me why it has taken so long for the message to get to me?"

Drumknott felt his insides clench. On the last two words the Patrician had flicked his eyes up to meet Drumknott's and the clerk had felt a wave of nausea go through him at what he saw there.

"I can assure you, my lord, that I bought the message up to you as soon as it was received by the Palace's clacks tower. The delay must have occurred at the other end, sir. I assume that those tending to Her Ladyship in Pseudopolis had other things they had to deal with before they were able to send the clacks message. If you look at the top of the message, sir, it will tell you the time at which the message was sent."

"Did _you_ not look at it, Drumknott?"

Vetinari saw his clerk's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

"I'm afraid my attention was rather caught by the content of the message, my lord."

Drumknott stood there with his imagination whirring and his bowels knotted in terror as the Patrician finally lowered his fingertips to the paper and drew it towards him, before unfolding it and scanning the page. Drumknott's insides froze and his heart stilled as he heard the words that the Lord Vetinari whispered under his breath, words that the clerk wasn't sure he should hear and certainly didn't want to.

"As warm and human as a thrown knife, indeed. Well, I suppose it is no more than I deserve."

The Patrician stared at the paper in his hand for a few more seconds before smiling at his clerk and standing.

"Very well." He strode towards the door of the Office, his clerk hurrying to follow him out. As he reached the corridor he turned to face the clerk, again putting on a carefully constructed smile.

"Kindly send a reply acknowledging that we have received the news, but nothing more than that for now. I am not to be disturbed. Tell Vimes that includes him."

Drumknott bowed.

"Yes, my lord."

He watched the Patrician as the man walked away, still not releasing the breath he had been holding. Then, when he was sure that the Patrician was out of earshot, he sighed.

The Patrician's quarters were that way.

Drumknott turned on his heel and headed purposefully towards the staircase.

-x-

Lord Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork opened the door to his bedroom and stepped inside. Havelock Vetinari, last direct descendent of a famous bloodline, top honours graduate of the Assassins' Guild and lord of a festering if thriving city shut the door and leaned his back against the wood. After a couple of still, quiet moments he crossed the floor and flipped the message onto the writing table in the corner. He then removed his heavy outer robe so that he stood only in trousers and shirt, and then flopped down onto the bed.

He put his hands over his face and sighed heavily.

As warm and human as a thrown knife. There were many people in the city, some who were quite close to the Patrician, officially speaking, and some who had never met him at all, who would say that the Patrician was the epitome of everything that wasn't warm or human. And to a certain extent they would be right: when it came to the city little emotion came into it apart from a sense of fierce protectiveness and, occasionally, perverse amusement. But, as Captain Carrot was so fond of saying, personal is not the same as important.

_Oh dear_, he thought to himself, _I really did bring that upon myself, didn't I? I encouraged the growth of the clacks system to further political gain, and now this. When dear Mr Lipwig said that clacks messages barely left room to state that a relative was dead and give a date for the funeral I knew that it was true. I _knew_ that things like that would happen to people, that the harshness would make their lives that just that little bit worse that they already were, knew that it would happen to _me_, and yet still I let it go on. I let that little bit of humanity go for the sake of politics. A letter would have taken longer, yes, but more could have been said in an attempt to soften the blow, or at least make it sound nicer. Ah, but no one would want to keep me waiting, would they? Not the tyrannical Lord Vetinari. No! He must know immediately._

Havelock got up and walked over to a chest of drawers, where he leaned against it, staring at his reflection in the mirror that hung above it.

"But would I really have wanted to be kept waiting for that extra time?"

He carried on staring for a minute and then dropped his head.

"No. I wouldn't."

He went and reread the clacks message, the little bit of him that used to be human crying out at its bluntness, and the greater, political part laughing sardonically in its coldness at the cruel irony of it all. He turned on his heel and went out of the room, the paper crumpling in his thin-boned hand as he touched a place on the wall and the corridor suddenly opened up onto another one that hadn't been there before.

-x-

Two minutes later the Patrician was in the Oblong Office and at the drinks cabinet, pouring himself a large whiskey.

-x-

It had been half an hour since Drumknott had delivered the clacks message to the Patrician and he was now sitting at his desk in the antechamber to the Oblong Office, concentrating fiercely on the paperwork. There was a slamming noise from somewhere downstairs and the familiar shouts of Commander Vimes of the Watch. Footsteps raced up the stairs as Drumknott leapt up from his chair and rounded his desk to stand in the centre of the floor.

Commander Vimes came bursting through the entrance and strode towards the Oblong Office. Drumknott remained calm and stood his ground as the Commander approached.

"The Patrician is not receiving visitors at the moment, Commander."

Vimes glared at him and moved closer, the colour rising in his face.

"What? But this is important! We've caught that nutter, the one who was plotting to kill the Uberwaldian ambassador!"

"I congratulate you, Commander, but nevertheless His Lordship has ordered that he is not to be disturbed, and he was most emphatic that this also included you."

Vimes pushed past the clerk, stubbornly refusing to waver from his path.

"Well then, you can tell him to put that order in a very painful place; this is important."

To his surprise, the clerk grabbed his arm and pulled him up short, glaring hard at him.

"And the matter His Lordship is dealing with is personal. You are to leave him alone."

Vimes frowned.

"He's only got one aunt and he sure as hell ain't got a girlfriend, 'cos I'd have heard, and he's the lord of this city with a job to do. I don't see what personal matters he could have that would come first over this."

He pushed forward again, only to find himself almost tackled by the smaller and usually timid clerk, who spun the astonished Commander around and threw him back a step. The clerk stood there with his fists clenched by his side, his face red and his voice angry.

"Yes, Vimes, he does only have an aunt. And His Lordship is about the same age as you. Tell me, how many of your original blood relatives do you have left?"

Vimes was completely shocked. The aunt had died? Why had nobody told him? And the nasty little voice cut in, the one that was always at the back of his mind: _but you're being told now, aren't you?..._

Vimes straightened up from his angry slouch, and calmed his voice.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear it if His Lordship has had a death in the family, but this really is very important and it's his job to deal with these sorts of matters."

Drumknott face was a beacon of angry heat and red embarrassment now, but he still refused to buckle.

"And how would you like it, _Commander_, if your little boy died and someone came to you saying that, 'oh yes, very sad, but you've got to come on duty now, sir, because it's your job to fight crime and it's out there waiting for you: some idiot's just broken into Vortin's again', hmm?"

Drumknott watched the idea work its way into the Commander's mind and then his expression. The Commander went completely still.

"Alright," he said quietly, "you've got a point. Did His Lordship give any indication as to how long he was not to be disturbed for?"

"No, he did not. I merely assumed it would be for as long as it is before he decides to reappear."

"Ah, right. D'you mind if I wait for him, then? I don't want to let this go untold for any longer than necessary."

"Feel free to wait for as long as you like, although won't it disturb your patrolling?"

"My official shift doesn't start for a while yet and I can get someone to cover it for me." He turned to a crowd of watchmen who were clattering and panting up the last flight of stairs, obviously having been unable to keep up with their leading officer's stubbornly impressive turn of speed. "Constable Haddock, Captain Carrot is on the desk today. Go down to the Watch House and tell him I need him to get someone to cover my shift today." He turned back to the clerk as Constable Haddock staggered back down the stairs.

"Where is he?" said Vimes, who after a lifetime of coppering just couldn't stop the questions from coming.

"He went off towards his rooms."

"Oh. Then do you mind if I stay in the Oblong Office? Only that bloody clock'll drive me mad if I have to stay out here for gods know how long."

Drumknott, who by this point had managed to calm down a bit even if he was still breathing a bit heavily, nodded.

"Of course. I'm sure that will be fine," he said, mentally deciding to remove any particularly interesting pieces of paper from the Patrician's desk, in case Vimes tried reading any of them upside down again.

He opened the door to the Oblong Office and motioned the Commander inside and then followed him in. Once inside the Commander stopped stock still, his senses screaming at him that something was wrong. He tried to work out what it was: something about the outline of the desk…

Drumknott got there first.

"Vimes, the whiskey decanter from the drinks cabinet is on Lord Vetinari's desk. As is a whiskey tumbler. I've never seen that before."

They walked slowly towards the desk like an antelope checking to see that the lion is dead. The reality of it was almost unbelievable.

"How much of that stuff do you reckon he's had?" asked Vimes.

"I-I'm not entirely sure. I _believe_ it was filled up only this morning in preparation for Archancellor Ridcully's appointment tomorrow. His Lordship wants a particularly impressive setting for the welcoming of the new Klatchian ambassador later in the year, but it is within just a few days of the wizards' Annual Convivium. He wanted to ease negotiations."

Vimes whistled. The decanter was almost half-empty.

"That's strong stuff, too. I can smell it from here from where he's left the stopper out. If it was him, of course."

"Can you imagine anyone else who would dare drink it without invitation?" said Drumknott, his eyebrows raised.

Vimes shook his head.

"Nope." He paused and shifted his weight to his other leg, looking uncomfortable. "You don't reckon he'd do something stupid, do you?"

"What, Lord Vetinari? No. He's to calm for that."

"Well, yeah, but all the other rulers we've had have turned out to be a bit mad in the end, and Vetinari's so sane it's almost mad, and I've always wondered what little switch there was that might flip him the other way. Anyway, I've been a drunk more'n half my life, I know what kind of ideas that can give you," Vimes said gently. He'd been watching the clerk's face throughout the conversation and his expression had gradually been progressing from anxious to almost desperate.

Drumknott shook his head and grinned nervously.

"No. No, I still don't think he would do something… stupid. He's not a stupid man. And he was quite calm when he gave me my orders after he'd received the news. Anyway, how would he do it?"

"He's an Assassin", said Vimes, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, "How many ways does he need?"

-x-

Five minutes and a brief but heated argument later, Vimes stood in front of the Patrician's bedroom door, with Drumknott lurking nervously behind him. He knocked.

"Your Lordship? Are you in there?"

There was silence from beyond the door. And then a languid voice…

"I thought I gave orders to Drumknott that I was not to be disturbed?"

Vimes shut his eyes and suppressed the sigh of relief.

"You did, sir, and I received them. Mr Drumknott was most emphatic about it, so don't blame him. But you see, sir, we found the whiskey on your desk, sir, and we were a bit… worried about you, sir, considering."

"Considering what?"

"Considering that your aunt's died, sir."

There was a barely audible chuckle from the other side of the door.

"Ah, so dear Drumknott told you that as well, did he?"

There was a quiet little whimper from the clerk and Vimes cursed himself for not going more carefully. He tried to think out what he said next.

"Yes, sir, he did, but only 'cos I bullied it out of him."

"And what were you worried about?"

"Well, sir, we were worried that you might do something a bit, well a bit stupid, sir. People can react oddly to losses, especially if they're under a lot of pressure already –"

The voice that came back from the other side of the door was harder, more angry and a bit mocking. Vimes could have sworn he heard the Patrician snigger.

"Do I really seem like the kind of man who would do something… _stupid_, Vimes? Anyway, if I _had_ wanted to something stupid then I would have bitten into a cyanide capsule, in which case you wouldn't have had the _chance_ to try and talk me out of it."

Vimes was damned if he could think up a decent response to that.

"Errm… well then… I –"

"Of course, I could always use this nice shiny dagger, but that would be so much slower and take so much more effor –"

There was the sound of someone tripping over something, a moment of breathless silence, then a clatter as of a cane falling to the floor, followed by the thud of a body. These sounds were immediately followed with a sharp "ouch!" and the jangling tinkle of metal bouncing on the floor.

Vimes's policing instincts threw up a red alert flag.

"Your Lordship?"

Vimes chucked himself against the door as hard as he could, shaking the door but definitely failing to break it down. He succeeded on the next try as Drumknott in his panic added his weight to the force.

The pair burst through the door to see a cane on the floor and the curtains flapping in the breeze from the open window, but no Vetinari.

Vimes ran over to the window and leant over the sill, looking down, and then around, frantically. There was no sign of Vetinari anywhere.

"Where is he, Vimes?"

Vimes turned a shocked and puzzled face to the clerk.

"I don't know! He hasn't fallen but he's nowhere else either. Where could he have gone in broad daylight?"

"I don't know, he was an Assassin, he must have climbed away!"

Vimes automatically turned his puzzlement into a form of anger.

"Don't be daft! Assassins wear black and I sure as hell would have seen that, even though the sun isn't very high yet."

Drumknott stood in the middle of the unlit room, looking lost.

"Then what do we do? Lord Vetinari has a very clever mind, I don't think he'll be found if he doesn't want to be."

Vimes stomped angrily over to the door, his expression sour.

"He's drunk and, though I dread using the word and can't believe I'm actually saying it, 'cos it sounds like something Carrot would say, he's probably a bit upset, so just _perhaps_ his mind won't be quite so sharp, eh? I'm sending out a search party."

Drumknott hesitated, his original doubts coming back to him now that it was apparent that the Patrician wasn't actually dead yet. A dead Patrician might very well be worse for the city than an alive one, but he was quite sure that an alive one was much worse for him than a dead one if Drumknott played a part in following him when he did not want to be followed.

"Perhaps that is not such a good idea. If his lordship wants to be alone now then I don't think there's much we can do about it or should do about it. It's his decision and people cope with their losses in different ways."

"Yeah, but this is the Patrician, so things are a little different. He's forgotten his cane so he won't walk so well, he's drunk so if he gets mugged he won't be able to fight so well, and I'll be damned if he thinks he can talk to me like I'm five years old when all we were doing was checking he hadn't topped himself."

Drumknott's mouth was agape.

"And just who do you think would dare to mug or murder the Patrician?" he said incredulously. Vimes stepped forward until they were almost nose to nose.

"Newcomers from outside the city who don't recognise his picture from our money or understand the state of things and mad nutters who see an opportunity for glory." His voice lowered to a growl. "I'm sending out a search party."

Drumknott sighed as Vimes stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him, and then he went to fetch the Dark Clerks.

-x-

It was late afternoon now and still there had been no word or sign of Lord Vetinari. Vimes had searched all of the Palace that he could get to, including the Patrician's special dungeon, and Drumknott had scoured all of the secret passageways that he knew of, although after emerging from the last one he had reminded Vimes that he had not lived in the Palace for nearly so long as Vetinari and the Patrician wouldn't have told him all of them anyway; he'd also told Vimes that some of His Lordship's… _special_ gentlemen had been scouring the rooftops and had been unable to find the Patrician there. Vimes had searched all the taverns and houses of negotiable affection that a man might be inclined to go to when drunk, and had then gone up to the most expensive cemetery in the city, where the Vetinari family vault was situated. Vetinari wasn't there, either. He even went and searched his own house, in the hope that Vetinari had gone to talk to Sybil, as she was one of the few people who didn't seem to be afraid of him. He had been surprised to find out from Sybil that the Patrician had a house on the same road as them, at which point Sybil had looked disappointed in him.

"But that house is always busy! I see servants in and out of there all the time, but he sure as hell doesn't live there!"

"Sam, Havelock is much more considerate than you give him credit for, and he showed it more openly when he was younger. He became a lord before he was even in sixth-form but he still knew that if he shut the house up those people would have little or no way of supporting themselves. Besides, he's a Patrician, and that position is notoriously precarious; he knew that keeping the house open would mean it would be ready for him at a moment's notice should he need to make use of it."

Vimes had stared at her.

And so that was why he was standing on the doorstep of a large house, stubbornly un-plumed helmet under his arm, waiting for someone to answer the door. Eventually his knock was answered when an old couple opened the door and peered round it short-sightedly. By their dress, Vimes reckoned the old man was a butler, and the old woman the housekeeper.

"Good afternoon, sir, madam, I was wondering if I could speak to your master?"

The couple looked oddly at each other and then turned to look at Vimes.

"I'm afraid the Master is not in," said the butler.

"Yes, dear," said the woman, talking slowly and gently to get through to the obviously stupid man in front of her, "because the Master is the Patrician now, has been for a little while, and he doesn't live here anymore. Comes up to the house every winter to wish us a Happy Hogswatch, but we hardly ever see him apart from that."

"Yes, madam, I appreciate that, but I have reason to believe that he may have entered the house by less… _conventional_ ways. The Patrician's gone missing after some rather unwelcome news and I need to investigate every possibility."

The woman frowned, and it was the frown that a mother would give a naughty child.

"Oh, has he been up to his Assassins' tricks again? Inconsiderate boy."

Vimes choked at this, desperately trying not to laugh hysterically. It seemed that this old pair weren't quite living in the world of the present, so he decided he'd better tread with caution so as not to offend them. If they'd hardly seen him for the past thirty odd years then they obviously had no idea of how much the man's character must have changed, and he didn't really want to be the one to break that delusion.

"So it would seem, madam. May I have permission to search his rooms?"

"Of course you may, officer. They're this way, follow me."

"Margaret –"

"Just you shush now, Albert. This seems a very determined young gentleman and we wouldn't want any harm to have come to the young master, now would we?"

"No, Margaret."

"Good."

The old butler shut the door behind Vimes as the woman headed towards a wide staircase. Vimes gave the man a sheepish grin before trotting after her.

-x-

When the woman had left him in Vetinari's chambers, Vimes sighed in disappointment. Vetinari was steadfastly failing to stand slap-bang in the middle of the carpet. As Vimes checked all the likely hiding places he took a look around the rooms. They were richly furnished but appeared to have had little character externally imposed up them, apart from a fastidious neatness and order. Vimes was surprised to find clothes of more than just black in the big wardrobe, and almost shocked when another cupboard nearly disembowelled him with a wickedly sharp dagger. He looked inside, hoping for any indication of where the man had gone.

The cupboard was chock full of weapons and little glass phials. Vimes dreaded to think just what it was they might contain. He rooted around a little bit before giving up, turning away from the cupboard. As he did so, something caught the corner of his eye…

Vimes leaned down and inspected a pair of the metal armoured shoes that the Assassins called "priests". Peeking out from underneath them was a wilted lilac stem, with a few dried flowers clinging desperately to it. He lifted the shoes and uncovered the lilac, along with an age-yellowed piece of paper. He brought the paper up to his face, his eyes widening as he realised just what it was.

It was the Watch record of the death whilst on duty of one Sergeant-at-arms John Keel. A note that had gone missing two days after the burial of those who fell.

_That arrogant bastard!_

Vimes took the paper and the lilac stem and turned back to the rest of the rooms, heading towards the little study that was adjoined to the main bedroom. He had glanced into it as he went around, but had dismissed it due to it's lack of opportunities for concealing oneself. All it had contained was book-covered walls and an antique writing desk, which Vimes had dismissed as relatively unimportant in terms of his search. But now…

Vetinari was a man of words, wasn't he? That was why he'd taken and kept this little piece of paper. And this morning he'd received a _message_. Vimes crossed over to the little writing desk, which was piled high with old papers and quill pens.

There, in the middle of the only clear bit of faded green leather, lay a folded clacks message. And an egg.

Vimes looked at the paper in his hand and then out of the window. It was the beginning of May and the lilac plant climbing up the side of the house and hanging over the window was only just in bud, nowhere near the flowering of the 25th, but still…

They'd been looking in the wrong cemetery.

-x-

Twilight was setting in by this point and in the dim light the Cemetery of Small Gods looked fully capable of holding insane Patricians and evil Assassins. It also looked like it might be able to hide them. Vimes headed purposefully for the seven graves of the men of the Glorious 25th of May. When he was there he looked down at the markers, and the crude inscription on one of them. "How Do They Rise Up". _Well_, he thought, _Vetinari rose up alright. He gained himself a different kind of glory. We hardly recognised him as one of us when he fought with us, apart from the lilac. He didn't look much like a real policeman, and we couldn't see much of his face, what with the hood and all. I barely noticed him at all, I know that. I was too angry._ Vimes looked around the cemetery, staring into shadows, forcing them to Help A Watchman With His Enquiries. _What was it Sybil said again? Vetinari's just the watchman for a bigger street? Something like that. Oh yes, he rose up, but not that high. He's here somewhere, I know it._

And yet there was no sign of him. No darker shadows, not the slightest movement. And black should show up in the dark.

Vimes gave up and went to look round behind the graves, and tripped over something. _Funny_, he thought as he fell, _I didn't notice anything there_. He hauled himself onto his side and almost screamed: the back of John Keel's headstone was grinning at him. As Vimes stared at the white smile he looked harder, and gradually the smile became part of a painted face with dark blue eyes. He looked back at his feet, and the shadows he had tripped over became a pair of long legs clothed in shabby mottled grey.

"Hello, Commander Keel."

"Vetinari."

"Mmhmm."

Vimes felt that "mmhmm" was a little too vague for his liking. After all, he was in a cemetery after dark with an invisible man who knew how to kill. He decided to proceed with caution.

"Excuse me, sir, but are you still drunk?"

The grin widened.

"No, Vimes. As a matter of fact I am remarkably good at holding my drink."

"If you'll excuse me saying so, sir, I've never seen you drink a great deal. It might have hit you harder than you think."

"Ah, well then, I shall just have to roll with the blow."

Vimes unhooked his ankles from Vetinari's legs and pulled himself onto his knees.

"Are you alright, sir?"

"Yes, Vimes. Why did you come here?"

"Because you left the egg, sir. People often go to cemeteries to think when a… relative has died, and this showed me which one you'd gone too."

The grin faded and the mouth twisted itself into an expression of distaste and disappointment.

"Oh, really, Vimes, is that as far as you got? I thought you were much better than that."

Vimes frowned at this offence and threw all sense of politeness to the wind. When he next spoke his voice was low and fuelled with anger.

"And what was it that I was supposed to have realised?"

"The egg, Vimes. You remember me telling you that I was sent on an errand to warn and protect a Sergeant Keel? You remember that the Lady Roberta Meserole, or Madam as she preferred to be called, was intricately involved with the revolution? You realise that someone would have had to pay that Assassin?" Vimes had been nodding the whole way through this. "You realise, then, the unusual nature of the errand and the fact that the client would have had to have had great trust for the Assassin on this mission?" Vimes nodded again. "Well, why do you think that Lady Roberta Meserole, who, by the way, gave the contract, trusted me so much? She was my aunt."

Vimes's mouth dropped open.

"_She_ is your aunt?! _Madam_ is your aunt?!"

"Was, Vimes. Was."

Vimes fell silent at this, bowled over by surprise and unable to gather all the questions into one coherent thought. Eventually, he managed to force something out.

"Why didn't she tell us? Why didn't _you_ tell us?"

"Why should we have done? A little lance-constable like you? Really, Vimes, I know you hate the aristocracy, but you really should take a look at Twurp's Peerage from time to time."

Vimes glared. Vetinari sighed, sliding his back further down the headstone, lifting his hands to rest behind his head, and stretching his legs out further in front of him. Vimes was surprised when the Patrician continued speaking.

"And so, Commander Vimes, that is why I came here, to this cemetery. That was the one time I disappointed her. Oh, there were many times when I didn't do what she _said_, but impressed her nonetheless. I didn't want to see Commander Samuel Vimes today and I certainly didn't want to see Sergeant John Keel, which is why I gave Drumknott the order." He sighed, and smiled again. "And yet here we are! Once I'd reached the house I'd thought about things a bit. I knew that I wanted to come down here but I also felt that, maybe, just maybe, I _did_ want to see John Keel again after all. Which is why I left you the egg."

"But, sir, how did you know that –"

"Oh, come now, Vimes, I knew that you'd follow me in the end. You always do. Besides, you thought I'd cut myself by mistake, although if you'd taken the time to think before rushing off after me you would have found out that there was no blood in my room and that a man is quite capable of saying 'ouch' as a result of a slightly twisted ankle and a bruised side."

Vimes growled at this, the anger at Vetinari's arrogance rising again at the thought: _Vetinari's_ _terrier_…

"Well, then, _sir_, so long as you're alright, I'd better be getting back. I've got a job to do."

Vetinari suddenly pushed himself to his feet, rising just before Vimes.

"As do I." He looked down at the grave, his face oddly melancholy in the dim light. "I shall not be able to go to the funeral, you know. She always preferred Pseudopolis to here; I would very much doubt if she wanted to be buried here, and I can't spare the time." He hesitated, and sighed again. Vimes couldn't help but let in a treacherous little thought, one that echoed one Sybil had voiced once before: _If you can't, then who on earth can? _Vimes was about to butt in again about how he didn't want to hang around in a cemetery, when Vetinari spoke again. "It was always Madam who ordered the egg to be there. She won't be able to do that anymore. I think I shall do it from now on; my own little remembrance, as it were. Her and the Sergeant in one go. It is not what she would have wanted, as such, but it is still… fitting."

Vimes gave a little sharp cough of embarrassment. Vetinari's head flicked up and he strode off towards the gates, somehow once again having the imperious bearing of a Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, even in his ragged clothing. Vimes followed in his wake.

-x-

As they stepped out of the gates Vetinari turned to Vimes.

"Well, I believe our ways must part here, temporarily. After all, it would not do for me to be seen walking through the streets like this. And I'd risk being expelled from the Guild, for what Assassin wears grey? I shall take to the rooftops. See you in my office."

Vimes watched him walk towards the nearest building and yelled out something whilst he still had the chance.

"Sir!"

"Yes, Vimes?"

"About your limp, sir. It seems to be a _bit_ worse at the moment, but tell me, do you really need that cane? After all, you left it on the floor and yet here you are about to climb a wall. Looks like a deliberate display of untrue vulnerability to me."

"Oh, really, Vimes, don't be foolish. You saw what that pellet did to my leg. Admittedly, yes, it is possible to get around without it, but takes more effort, is distinctly more uncomfortable, and aches after a while. I predict that I shall have severe cramps by the time I get back." He leaned cat-like against the wall and grinned again. "But I have to say that the cane does give me a certain extra something, doesn't it? See you in a minute."

He turned around and disappeared against the wall, leaving only an unsettling sensation of movement. Laughing quietly to himself, Commander Vimes started to run.

-x-

Vimes waited inside the Oblong Office. Suddenly Vetinari appeared from somewhere indistinguishable in the wall, dressed once more in his black robes of office.

Vimes had to suppress a chuckle.

"Ah, Vimes, you're here. Good. Perhaps you'd like to give me that report about the man who wanted to attack the ambassador?"

Vimes stared. He shook himself and gave the report.

"Eerm… sir?"

Vetinari smiled at him.

"Yes, Commander?"

"You've erm… you've missed a bit, sir."

Vetinari's fingers flew to his face.

"Would you like to borrow my handkerchief, sir? It's clean."

The man's eyes changed and he frowned slightly, his mouth a thin, hard line. His voice when it came was quiet once more.

"Thank you, Vimes."

The Patrician removed the offending smudge of green paint and handed the handkerchief back.

Vimes saluted and marched out of the Office.

-x-

The next time Vimes went down to the cemetery the lilac was in bloom and a hardboiled egg had been placed upon the grave once more. The only difference was that this time the ribbon encircling it was black, not purple.

THE END


End file.
